December Drabbles
by KnightFury
Summary: My first attempt at Hades Lord of the Dead's December Calendar Challenge of Awesomeness. I hope that you enjoy these as much as I enjoy writing them! Please R & R.
1. The Eccentric Stranger

**From cjnwriter:**  
**Dec 1: Crossover with a favorite childhood book, movie, or TV show**

"Watson!" Holmes called to me as he clattered into our hall and up the seventeen steps to our sitting room. "Watson! Come quickly! There is a man that I wish for you to meet!"

I shivered in the chill draught that my friend brought in with him and turned in my chair to meet his gaze.

"It is still snowing hard out then," I remarked, noting that his coat, scarf and hat were heavily dusted with large, rapidly-thawing snowflakes. I had a good mind to inform my friend that he had forgotten to kick the snow from his shoes before he came upstairs and that Mrs. Hudson would no doubt have a thing or two to say about it, but something in his manner kept me from uttering another word.

He nodded and sniffed in a manner that informed me that the weather was of little importance. "Yes indeed, but we shan't be out in it for long. Do come along old fellow; I can assure you that you shall not want to miss this."

My companion knows from experience that I do not like to be left out of his cases. His assurance that I would be upset were I to miss out told me all that I needed to know and I stood somewhat stiffly and took up my cane while Holmes took the stairs two at a time to seek out my hat, coat and muffler for me and to find an umbrella.

"Why he could not move his box closer to the house I cannot fathom," my friend remarked as we set off through the swirling snow. "Never the less, he wanted to see us both and I said that we would come. I daresay that you shall enjoy this experience. The man that you are about to meet is like no other Watson; I can assure you that you shall find The Doctor fascinating."

I am accustomed to my companion's mysterious nature, but I could not help wishing to know what he could possibly be talking about. I might well have asked him, but I was finding it rather difficult to keep up with the fellow, despite the manner in which he patiently slowed his pace and offered me his arm, and I knew that he would say no more no matter how I might press him.

After what seemed an age to me with my aching leg and shoulder, a box large enough to shelter a man loomed out of the swirling snow in front of us and my friend gave a little cry of excitement.

"Here we are Watson; we can get in out of this dreadful weather and warm ourselves now. Can you pick up the pace, do you think? You must be frightfully cold!"

I gave no reply but rallied as best as I could. Holmes was indeed right and I was chilled to the very bone, but he had been out in the elements longer than I and my concern rested much more with him than myself.

"How exactly are we supposed to shelter in this box?" I asked of him. "And where is this doctor who asked to see us?"

"Mr. Holmes! Doctor Watson!" an enthusiastic voice hailed us as the door of the box opened before us. "Come in, come in! You look cold. Would you like some tea?"

We were dragged inside rather eagerly and I swayed at my companion's side as I took in my surroundings for the scene that my eyes beheld was simply not possible.

"Steady old chap," Holmes said quietly as he braced me with the arm that was still linked through mine. "My apologies Watson. I would have warned you, but I really did not quite know how best to prepare you without causing you to think me mad or unwell. Doctor, have you a chair for my friend and colleague?"

I was still gazing about us in wonder and confusion as I was ushered to a stool that I did not remember noticing when we entered and the Doctor took our outer garments.

"But... but it is not possible," I gasped as I finally found my voice. "I saw it as we entered! There should not be room enough for us to stand side by side, much less to sit down!"

"They usually say 'It's bigger on the inside' the first time they enter," Holmes' acquaintance informed me as he rubbed his hands together.

"Watson keeps our agency firmly flat-footed upon the ground," my companion responded with a quiet chuckle. "You must forgive him Doctor; this is all rather too much for him."

The Doctor merely smiled and clapped his hands. "Quite right; everything can be explained with science, after all."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "How can a box that houses a vast room on its inside be explained with science?"

The smile on the stranger's face broadened. "Your modern science can't explain it, but mine can! I'm from the future - I'm a time traveller."

I felt Holmes steady me again and was glad that he was still beside me.

"Perhaps Watson would fare better if you were to show him," my companion suggested. "Perhaps you could take us off somewhere warmer? Australia perhaps. That should convince him well enough."

"I could take you somewhere, I suppose," said he. "Which year? You could see the past, the future... I could even show you what it was like here in the time of the dinosaurs, if you like."

"Well, Watson?" my friend asked of me. "What would you like to see?"

It was unusual for Holmes to ask me where I might wish to go and for a moment I was undecided. Then I remembered that my friend was rather fond of Europe and that he had a French grandmother."

"France?" he repeated in surprise. "Are you quite sure? We can travel much further than that in the blink of an eye! What about the New World? In Summertime, with the flowers in bloom?"

I gaped at him. "Holmes, America is in the Northern hemisphere, the same as us - it would be as much in the grip of winter as England is!"

"Time travel Watson," he repeated just a little impatiently. "We can go where we please, when we please."

I ran a hand that was somewhat less than steady over my face. "America in Summertime it is then," I agreed quietly.

"Wahey!" Holmes turned to beam at his acquaintance. "Do you think that your remarkable box of tricks can manage that Doctor?"

"Of course she can!" the eccentric man replied as he patted the podium beside him. "Just you watch!"

He then started to dance around the podium while he flicked this and twiddled that. I was just beginning to think that nothing was happening when the room in which I was sitting gave a sudden jolt and the floor started to shiver and vibrate beneath me.

Holmes smiled at me from the corner of his eye as we watched his acquaintance with interest. "I have met this chap three times before now," he informed me. "The first occasion was long before now; long before I knew what I would become, in fact. He was wearing a different face then, mind you."

"He is a master of disguise, like yourself, then?"

"There is little that he cannot turn his hand to; he is a remarkable man. As you shall soon see, I am willing to bet."

With that, the floor stopped vibrating and all was quiet and still.

"Welcome to America, August 1883," The Doctor announced as he guided us to the door. "If you'll come this way..."

I had not set foot on American soil before and, I believe, Holmes had not done so either. The Doctor, however, seemed to know exactly where to go. He escorted us to a large park, in which many people were already strolling.

"This is Central Park," our acquaintance informed us. "I know that you like art Mr. Holmes, so I thought that you might like it here - they opened an art gallery here last month."

My mind was still whirling, but Holmes took it all in his stride. No doubt this was not as new to him as it was to myself.

We spent a charming afternoon in the park. We took a stroll alongside the lake and took tea outside of the art gallery. The weather excellent, but the blue sky and bright sunshine caused me to dread returning home and being forced to trudge back to the house in the terrible conditions that we had left behind us.

Holmes hummed quietly as he picked a bunch of flowers before we returned to the blue box in which we had arrived. "For Mrs. Hudson," he informed me with a chuckle.

"But how will you explain how you came by them?" I asked of him.

He merely shrugged and chuckled again. "Our housekeeper knows well enough to expect the unexpected," he replied. "Besides, I really should apologise for all the dirt that I walked through the house. It was quite thoughtless of me."

"I'll try to drop you at your door this time," The Doctor informed us as we stepped inside and pulled on our outerwear. "Right then... London, December the first 1881."

Before I knew it, we were outside of 221B Baker Street, surrounded once more by swirling snow.

"I hope your first Christmas together is a merry one," The Doctor said as he prepared to show us out. "I'm sure that you'll spend many more together."

The bright, knowing smile with which he addressed us as we filed out told me that he was rather more than sure. What a strange thing time travel must be, to know what will be with as much assurance as one knows what was. It perhaps should have made me uncomfortable that the fellow knew what was to come, but it gave me a peculiar feeling of hope and reassurance that whatever was to come, this man seemed to know that we would come through it together.


	2. Beer and Bacon

**From SheWhoScrawls: December 2: Watson is suffering from an aversion to bacon. Explain.**

I entered the sitting room and gave a start at the sight of Watson stretched rather awkwardly upon our settee. He groaned as I took to my armchair.

"Whatever is the matter old fellow?" I asked as I watched him shift with a grimace. I noted with no little concern that he had that look about him which he always develops when he has been awake all night with his miserable war wounds. However, on this morning he was not holding his arm or leg at all awkwardly or stiffly which of course suggested that he had been unable to sleep for a different reason entirely.

My companion rubbed a hand across his eyes. "Please do not stare Holmes. I am all right."

It is interesting indeed that his definition of 'all right' when he refers to himself is startling similar to mine when used in regard to myself. I tutted and approached his side.

"What is it?" I demanded of him none too gently. "I can see quite well enough that there is something wrong. What the deuce did Lestrade do to you last night?"

He grimaced. "He did nothing to me. Please Holmes, do not shout so."

I calmed myself to the best of my ability. "Then what is it?"

I was rapidly becoming increasingly regretful that I had not joined Watson and Lestrade on their little excursion to the local public house, but I am too well known locally to feel comfortable and I would have felt as if I were intruding in any case. That Yarder has become far more friendly with my Boswell since 1891 than he ever was with me. But that is the way of things. Watson is the warmer and much more approachable of the two of us, after all.

"I simply found it difficult to sleep Holmes. That is all."

I shrugged. "Would you care to tell me what occured last night?"

My friend groaned. "I learned that Lestrade is rather fond of beer. We had four pints each before I lost count."

"But you do not drink like that!" I gasped, horrified. Watson tends to become tipsy after a single measure of whisky! Granted, beer is not nearly as strong, but four pints! And he had clearly had rather more than just the four.

"Holmes, please... I know that I have behaved stupidly."

I grimaced. "I take it that you are feeling unwell. Shall I fetch down your bag?"

"It is only a headache. Perhaps if I just have a glass of water..."

"Coffee would be better," I told him. "The headache is probably due to tiredness as much as the alcohol. I shall just ask for our breakfast."

I probably should not have stepped out onto the landing and shouted, but perhaps it will have helped my companion to remember to have more care in future. I heard him groan as I called our housekeeper and requested breakfast.

The coffee was brought in first and I gave my friend a cup. "Drink up Watson; this should put you right."

He sipped it tentatively before setting it aside. "Thank you."

Despite my companion's lack of enthusiasm, the strong, black coffee did indeed revive him somewhat. In fact, he seemed much improved until I uncovered my breakfast and started to eat.

With a groan Watson hauled himself to his feet and ran, none too steadily, into the washroom. The noises from within informed me that water might well have been the better choice of restorative drinks after all.

"Watson?" I called when all became quiet but my companion did not return to the sitting room. "Are you all right?"

I covered my breakfast again and left the table to approach our washroom, cursing my lack of medical knowledge. Of course the fellow was not all right! His stomach has proved to be even stronger than my own! All the same, I found myself at a loss and knew not what else to say.

Quietly I entered the little room to find my companion kneeling on the tiled floor in front of the lavatory, leaning wearily against the wall. I touched his shoulder gently and knelt at his side.

"Watson?"

"I am sorry Holmes... Did I put you off your breakfast?"

I snorted. "Never mind breakfast! Are you all right?"

"It was the bacon. The smell."

I frowned and wrapped an arm about him, for the room was cold and he was shivering. "But you like bacon!"

He groaned. "I do not think I could face it now. Not after last night. When we left the public house, Lestrade decided that he was hungry. I thought that I was as well. We each purchased a bacon sandwich..." he shuddered and grimaced.

I squeezed his shoulder sympathetically. He did not have to tell me any more. Clearly, either he or Lestrade - or all the more likely both of them - had become nauseous as the outside air assailed them and the bacon had only made matters worse.

"All right old fellow. We shall give the bacon to Mrs. Hudson's cat and we shall have toast. Can you manage some toast? And I shall get you some drinking water as well. Try not to remain here on the floor for too long in the meantime."

I do hope that Watson and Lestrade will be much more sensible in future. I do not like to watch my Boswell suffer but there is little that I could do for him. Prevention is much better than cure.


	3. This Cannot Be My Address!

**From Spockologist: 3. Address**

I awoke with a start at the sound of a fist hammering upon our front door. I had fallen asleep over a book in my armchair as I waited for my companion to return.

With a groan I picked my bag from off the floor inside the door and made my way downstairs as Mrs. Hudson answered the door.

McPherson hurried into the hall and gazed up at me as I reached the foot of the stairs.

"I am glad to find you still up Doctor," he said hurriedly. "It's Mr. Holmes; he's had a bad knock to his head. I found him wandering the street all bloody and confused... He couldn't remember where he lived."

Mrs. Hudson clapped a hand to her mouth with a little cry of shock and dismay.

"I am sure that Holmes will be all right," I soothed our housekeeper gently. "He has a strong constitution and head injuries are often more alarming in appearance than symptoms. Now, I suggest that you try to sleep for the time being; I may need your assistance when we return."

I myself feared for my companion terribly, but it would have done no good to have Mrs. Hudson in a state of hysterics.

As I knew that she would, our housekeeper quickly recovered herself and returned to her quarters at the top of the house.

"He looked awful," McPherson told me fearfully once we were underway. "His face was all pale and he was swaying around as if he'd just stepped off a ship. If it was anyone else, I might have thought he was drunk."

"Where is he now?" I asked, hoping that I was somehow resembling a calm and professional doctor.

"I took him to Inspector Lestrade's home. I thought that was probably for the best, since it was nearer than Baker Street."

"I think that that was very wise of you."

At least Holmes was not out in the cold, damp street. There was a sulfurous fog rolling in off the Thames - a pea-souper - and the temperature was sinking steadily lower.

I was prepared, I thought, for any eventuality. I was proven wrong, for the scene that awaited me was not one for which I was ready. When Holmes set eyes upon me, he flinched and backed away.

"I am your friend Holmes," I reminded him gently.

"You are nothing of the kind!" he responded in a state of near-panic. "You are a doctor!"

The word 'doctor' he spat at me as if it were the most dreadful word that ever existed. His manner did hurt, but I simply reminded myself that he was not in his right mind and set aside my bag.

"I am only a doctor when my services are required," I attempted to reassure him. "I am not in practice. I only want to help."

Holmes gripped Lestrade's arm tightly. "I don't like doctors! They are evil!"

Lestrade gestured for me to keep back and seated my friend upon his sofa. "Doctor Watson is a good man; he is not going to hurt you," he glanced in my direction for a moment. "Take a look at him - at the man, not the doctor - and draw your own conclusions."

I stood nervously while my companion analysed me carefully.

"You are an army doctor," he said eventually. "You were injured and sent home."

"Yes."

He gazed at me for a long moment and then grunted. "If I have to trust a doctor, I suppose that it should be you; you have an honest face."

I was upset that the fellow still did not know me, but it was a relief to be permitted to tend to him. I soon discovered that he had more than one injury.

"My God Holmes! Even your throat is bruised! Who did this to you?"

He shrugged and winced. "I am not sure whether I knew them or no, but I do recall seeing them off. At least two of them, anyway... there must have been a third because - ow!" he flinched as I cleaned some abrasions to his knuckles. "The third hit me from behind as his companions ran away."

"I wish I'd been passing at the time," McPherson muttered. Lestrade and I seconded his sentiment; we all three would very much have liked to get our hands on those ruffians.

Once I was convinced that my friend was well enough to travel McPherson found us a cab and Lestrade helped me in getting Holmes inside it.

"You'd best get yourself off home Constable," Lestrade said in a tone not lacking warmth. "Your shift finished more than two hours ago; your wife must be beside herself."

"Thank you sir, but I'm sure she'll understand when I explain. The missus is fond of Mr. Holmes sir."

I nodded and clapped him upon the shoulder before scrambling inside the cab and seating myself at my friend's side.

I would have liked to have rested a hand upon Holmes' shoulder or to hold his hand so as to reassure him, but the fellow was still disorientated and confused. He still did not know me.

When the cab pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street, it was clear that the house was no more familiar to him than I was.

"This cannot be my address!" he exclaimed with a whistle. "I could never afford it!"

"We share the rent," I informed him.

He gaped at me. "Do we really?"

The sitting room was unfamiliar to him, though his pipe rack and Persian slipper were not. His violin also brought a gleam of recognition to his eyes and he immediately began to play. At first the notes were jarring and discordant and obviously expressed his own emotions. This went on for some time and Lestrade left us in what he called peace. Then, quite unexpectedly, my companion played one of my favourite pieces followed by a rendition of his own which he has often performed for me while I have been too ill or in pain to manage to sleep.

As the final notes faded away, my friend blinked his grey eyes in a sleepy manner and then permitted them to meet my gaze.

He smiled. "Watson."

With a sigh of relief I approached him and wrapped an arm about his shoulders, being mindful of his many cuts and bruises. I was very glad to have my dear friend back.


	4. Rescue

**From Madam'zelleGiry: Day 4: Heroic rescue**

Holmes and I saw the smoke rising from our client's home, exchanged a horrified glance and then broke into a run. There was the sound of a firecart in the distance, but it was a long way off and the country roads were long and winding.

My companion had reached the cottage ahead of me and was already assessing the situation when I arrived. He turned to me.

"The youngest children are still inside."

I did not need to ask how he knew. The frantic parents were clinging to the children that they had managed to save and calling the names of the remaining two.

"Oh Holmes! How dreadful!" I gasped as I turned my eyes upon the blaze before us. There was little doubt that that charming little thatched cottage would be nothing but ash and rubble before the fire brigade arrived.

"Wait here Watson. You may be needed."

It took a moment for his words to sink in, but I still had time to grasp hold of him and force him to face me once more.

"Watson! Time is of the essence!"

"We shall go together," said I forcefully. "Those children will most likely have need of me."

"And what can you do for anyone in a burning building?" he snapped back at me. "Come now Watson! You shall be of more use here and you know it. Wait here."

I closed my eyes against my building panic and emotion and, with a silent nod, relinquished my grasp on his arm. By the time that I was able to again open my eyes he was gone and I could not help but think that I would never again see him in this world.

I had been standing on the same spot, watching the front door with building anxiety for what seemed to me an eternity when I was hailed by Inspector Fletcher, with whom Holmes and I had been working.

"I got Mr. Holmes' note and came as fast as I could," he informed me as he leapt from the four-wheeler in which he had arrived. "What new developments are there? Have we got our man?"

For the second time since I first started working with Sherlock Holmes, I became truly angry with the official police. Could he not see that I was in some distress? Was he unable to smell the smoke?

"Hang the case!" I replied with no small amount of fury and made my way back to the cottage with my stomach twisting itself into knots. I regretted allowing Holmes to enter that inferno alone.

The inspector whistled. "At least these cottages don't have any gas," he remarked. "There won't be any explosions at any rate. But where is Mr. Holmes? Gone to get help?"

It took much more effort than I would have liked to keep myself from swearing at the man. Finding that I could not trust my mouth to answer in a seemly manner, I simply pointed to what was left of the cottage with a hand that I was unable to keep from shaking.

Fletcher swore. "The idiot! What is he doing, running into a burning building like that? What was he thinking? He's too valuable to risk himself like that!"

I ran a hand over my face. I cared not a jot about how his country might need my friend at that moment. All I knew was that I had lost my companion once and could not bear to do so again.

"There are children in there," I attempted to explain. "He could not..."

Fletcher snorted. "They're probably overcome with smoke by now. It's suicide!"

I was spared from giving an answer when the roof collapsed and we were both forced to stand clear. I then rushed forward and removed the debris from in front of the door in desperation. Holmes could have been attempting to get out at any moment and would need that doorway to be passable.

There was still no sign of the fellow and so I started to call his name, all the while attempting to keep from my mind the last occasion in which I had shouted for my companion above a deafening roar. I had not received a reply at Reichenbach and I could not quite ignore the creeping doubts that he would be able to respond now.

A sudden cough made itself heard and I stepped inside the door tentatively. How long did we have until the floor gave way?

"Holmes!" I called anxiously as I strained my eyes and ears for an indication that I had not imagined that cough. "Holmes? Can you hear me?"

I continued to call out until the smoke that assailed my throat left me unable to speak - much less shout - further without coughing fitfully. My eyes were stinging too much to be able to see through the smoke and blinding flames and yet I continued to strain to catch sight of my friend and colleague.

I had all but given up when I heard Holmes' cough again. It was nearer this time.

"Holmes!" I turned away for a moment to clear my throat of the poisonous smoke before trying again. "Follow my voice Holmes; you must be close now."

The inspector was standing just outside the door and he too started to call for my companion. The situation was becoming desperate; the ceiling was about to come down at any minute!

Holmes at last lurched out of the swirling smoke and approached the door in which we stood. He looked dreadful! His mouth hung open as he struggled to breathe and his eyes were streaming due to the bright light of the flames and the choking smoke.

As he stepped closer I saw that my companion had a child held close to him in each of his arms. He had clearly ripped his handkerchief in half and tied the pieces over his charges' mouths and noses to protect them as best he could from the smoke. He had also told them to use his shoulders as shelter from the heat and smoke, by all appearances.

I rushed to meet my companion and all but dragged him out into the fresh air. The overjoyed parents immediately relived my companion of his charges and Fletcher draped his coat about his shoulders, as he was feeling the difference in temperature somewhat keenly.

"Brave children," my friend gasped between racking coughs. "Resourceful as well. Parents should be proud."

I squeezed his arm gently, for I myself was rather proud of him.

"We should get everyone inside and out of this weather," Fletcher remarked.

I agreed quietly.

"There's an inn not far from here," the inspector then told me. "But we can't all fit in the four-wheeler."

At that moment, the fire brigade arrived. Upon finding that there was little that they could do in saving the cottage they assisted in transporting our little party to the local inn, The George and Dragon.

Upon examining the children, I discovered that they were fortunate. Holmes informed me that they had managed to find a place to hide in which they were safe from much of the smoke and repeated that they had been very brave and resourceful. I must admit that I very much doubt that a child of four years (and much less one of two) would have thought to get away from the smoke; surely two frightened children would be much more concerned about those hot flames? Naturally though, his words were a great comfort to the parents and perhaps that was his intention.

My companion was received as a hero. We were given the best guest room and assured that we would not have to pay for it. Holmes was also provided with a restorative drink and hot bath, for he had come off rather worse than the children that he had rescued, as his selflessness had left him quite unable to protect himself from the smoke. He continued to cough fitfully despite my ministrations well into the early hours of the following morning. It did not prevent him from bringing the case to a successful conclusion, however.


	5. Snowballs

**From Madam'zelleGiry: Day 5: "Holmes, you simply can't throw snowballs at the carolers!"**

Holmes and I had just turned onto Baker Street on our return from a stroll in Regents Park when my companion grasped me by the wrist and dragged me back around the corner.

"Whatever is the matter?" I asked of the fellow. "Have we an enemy lying in wait for us somewhere?"

My companion only snorted in response. He was on his knees in the slush, gathering a handful of snow that had not yet been trodden into a filthy, sodden mess.

"What the deuce are you doing old fellow?"

"Will you be quiet?" he snapped in response. "Make yourself useful Watson; are those carol singers still singing?"

I stared down at him in disbelief. "Holmes, you simply can't throw snowballs at the carolers!"

He gave an aggrieved sniff and raised his eyes to meet my gaze. "I do not intend to throw snow at all of them! I simply wish to throw snow at the young scoundrel at the back of the group."

The 'young scoundrel' in question, I discovered when I inspected the group, was Wiggins, one of Holmes' Irregulars.

"But why would you wish to throw snow at Wiggins? He is among your best Irregulars!"

"He is the most resourceful," he responded peevishly. "And also the most cheeky. He hit me with no less than three snowballs yesterday and encouraged some of the younger and more easily led of the Irregulars to do the same."

I patted my friend's shoulder sympathetically. This explained how he had come to be so wet and chilled when he arrived home, to say nothing of his poor humour.

Holmes stood, brushed off his knees, and then we crossed the road so that we would be walking behind the singers, many of which were members of Holmes' Irregulars. As we passed them, Holmes artfully threw his projectile without drawing the slightest attention to us.

"Oi!" Wiggins protested with a gasp as his hat was knocked from atop his head. "Who did that? Who threw that?"

Holmes pressed a finger to his lips and addressed me with a satisfied smile. "The debt is paid," he said softly with a twinkle in his eye as we re-crossed the road and returned to our welcoming hearth and a warming drink.


	6. Noel

**From Lucillia: Dec 6. Small kitten found in a dustbin**

_Author's note: We have had a few like this already, so I have tried to go about it a little bit differently. I hope that I have not done too badly..._

"Sometimes," growled Sherlock Holmes as he entered our sitting room, his coat pulled tightly about him and his arms folded across his chest, "I become quite disgusted with the human race. Upon my life Watson, cruelty is a dreadful trait for a fellow to have!"

"What do you mean?" I asked with no little concern as my imagination started to run away with me. After all, there was very little that could have befallen my companion to cause him to make such an announcement. "Have you been attacked?"

He stared back at me for a long moment and then smiled. "Yes, I expect that I do look a bit odd," he noted. "No, no! I am quite all right. It was not me against whom the cruelty was aimed. Really Watson! Do you honestly believe that I would return home to you complaining if that were the case? Why, I would have defended myself and returned in high spirits, having sent my aggressor packing, I assure you!"

That would rather have depended upon the act of cruelty itself and whether or not even Sherlock Holmes would have been able to defend himself, but I said no more.

"Then what are you talking about?" I asked of him instead.

Rather than giving me a reply, Holmes approached the fire and knelt before it with his back to me.

I approached the fellow slowly, still wondering what could be amiss. He was certainly behaving strangely.

"Still breathing," I heard him remark to himself with a quiet sigh of relief.

As I came to the fellow's side, I saw that his coat was now open and that he was holding a tiny ball of matted fur within his nervous fingers.

"What the deuce is that?"

My friend gave a slight start and then gazed up at me. "One of my Irregulars found this creature in a dustbin and brought it to me," he said quietly. "From all that he described, it was no accident that brought the poor thing to be in there either."

"But what do you intend to do with it?" I asked of him, surprised at this side to my companion perhaps more than I should have been.

He shrugged. "What would you suggest? This animal needs warmth first of all; that much is obvious."

"I am a doctor Holmes, not a veterinarian."

"Is that your advice then? That we send for one?" he asked. "You have not even looked at it! The kitten is frightfully thin and must be dreadfully cold, but I have seen no signs of illness."

"Exposure to the cold itself is dangerous," I informed him. "Regardless of the possible onset of illness as a result. Simply spending too much energy attempting to keep warm is dangerous enough."

"And if this kitten was a child suffering with exposure, what would you do?"

I smiled at him. "I shall ask Mrs. Hudson to warm some rags or a towel that she would not miss," I responded. "He shall need something to drink as well; exposure dehydrates and wastes energy. Warm sugared water is what I would give to a fellow human being."

"Then ask for some," Holmes requested. "And perhaps a hot water bottle. I cannot remain here in front of the fire like this for the rest of the evening. Oh! Watson..."

I turned in the doorway. "Yes?"

"Do not tell her about the kitten. I was thinking that I might surprise her."

I left the fellow to his ministrations while I gave our housekeeper a list of the things that we required.

"Oh my!" she threw up her hands and shook her head. "What has Mr. Holmes done to himself now? Will you be needing a basin of hot water?"

We might well have done, but I was not at all sure that she would like the thought of us bathing a dirty cat in one of her wash basins. All the same, I knew that Holmes would have told me that I should have replied that yes, we would, if only to give the appearance of normality.

"Then I shall send one up for you," she said kindly. "But warm sugared water? What is that for?"

I grimaced, but not for the reason that she undoubtedly thought. I wonder if Holmes had even considered the concern that not giving an explanation of these requirements would cause.

"Doctor," she snapped at the sight of my expression. "What is it used for?"

"Exposure patients," I replied quietly, wishing that I could only tell her that Holmes was perfectly all right. I had a feeling that he may not be when Mrs. Hudson learned the truth. "To rehydrate and restore energy," I added when she frowned at me quizzically.

She tutted. "I am surprised that he has not caught pneumonia," she grumbled as she put the kettle on to boil. "All the time that he spends wandering the streets. He doesn't eat enough, has little or no regard for his health..."

I patted her shoulder gently. "I shall try to persuade him to eat something," I assured her. That might serve to begin to make up for the concern that we were no doubt causing the kindly woman so needlessly.

When I returned to the sitting room, the cat's eyes were half-open and it was shivering feebly on my friend's lap.

"Is this a good sign?" my companion asked of me.

I nodded. "It means that he is warming up."

"When will we know that he is out of danger, would you say?"

"I am not sure Holmes. I suppose the best indication that he should survive would be if he is still with us in the morning."

He shook his head and stroked the animal with one finger.

"What made you decide to bring him home?"

He shrugged. "Mrs. Hudson has been complaining about mice invading the house. Besides, she is a kind-hearted woman and I thought that she might like some company," he smirked at me. "I have been wracking my brain, trying to work out what I should give to her, and then an ideal gift all but fell in my lap!"

I was not at all sure that the creature could be given as a pet. It smelt foul, for a start, and its fur was matted and filthy. Its green eyes were cloudy and seemed unable to open more than half-way.

"He shall need to be cleaned up, obviously," my companion remarked. "At least it is too cold out for fleas to survive; were it Summertime, we might have had to treat the rooms."

And Holmes too, no doubt. I grimaced at the thought. I do wish that my companion would have a care.

"Well, the first thing is to warm and feed this little chap, if chap he is," my companion noted. "We shall clean him when he is in less danger."

The hot water and rags arrived first, followed by a hot water bottle and some old, moth-eaten towels. We wrapped the hot water bottle in one of the towels and set the little cat upon it, allowing Holmes to at last stand and remove his outdoor clothing.

When the sugared water arrived, it was in a teacup. Holmes dismissed my suggestion that we pour some of the drink into a saucer and instead used his finger to feed the animal drop by drop. At first the kitten licked up the solution feebly, but it gradually perked itself up until it was able to drink the last of it from the saucer.

"More," my companion instructed as he thrust cup and saucer into my hand. "It is working. Get some more."

I obeyed without objection, though I was still surprised by Holmes' tenderness. I had not seen him quite like this before.

When we decided that the animal was strong enough, we washed him with the old rags and the basin of water, which we had kept warm in front of the fire. The kitten's dirty beige and brown coat proved to be silver tabby beneath. I commented that he was a handsome fellow and Holmes agreed with a small smile.

When supper arrived we ate heartily but the kitten did not move; his ordeal most likely leaving him too weary to feel any pangs of hunger.

After supper, my companion gathered the creature into his lap in his armchair and I sat across from him in my own. We chatted until I could no longer stifle my yawns and excused myself, but my friend showed no sign of tiredness or retiring to his bed.

"You do realise that there is little that you can do now?" I asked, concerned that he might blame himself should our efforts prove to be in vain. "We have done all that can be done; it is up to Providence whether he succumbs to shock from his ordeal during the night."

Holmes nodded. "I am aware of that Watson. Understand this: had you seen the state of this creature and heard the tale that my Irregular told to me when he was pressed into my hands, you would also wish to see that this animal received all the kindness that could be granted to him. If he should pass tonight, at least he shall go knowing of some affection."

I patted his shoulder. Words failed me for a moment and when I did again find my voice, all that I said was "Good night old fellow."

"Good night Watson," he returned quietly.

The following morning dawned bright and quiet. With some apprehension I dressed and made my way down to the sitting room.

Holmes was still seated in his chair before the fire, which had been allowed to go out. He appeared to be dozing, but one single finger was still stroking the silver and black fur. As I approached the hearth, I was aware of a soft purring; Holmes' ministrations, and perhaps more importantly show of affection, had been enough. I smiled to myself and tended to the fire before finding a rug for my friend, noting that he must have become cold by now.

When breakfast arrived, my companion set the sleeping animal upon our hearth rug, acknowledging that the danger should have passed. As we sat down to eat, I saw the kitten sit up and begin to put his fur in order. Before we were midway through our meal, the little fellow was purring loudly and rubbing himself against our legs and those of the furniture.

"He is hungry!" Holmes noted with a smile before giving the cat what remained of his bacon.

"Holmes!" I scolded.

He shrugged and smiled. "We cannot present him to Mrs. Hudson half-starved, can we? Incidentally, do you have any ribbon left from your wrapping?"

When Mrs. Hudson collected the breakfast tray, she was delighted to receive an early gift from us. She examined the fellow closely and announced that she had little doubt that he should become a fine mouser.

Noel, as the cat came to be named, has indeed grown to be a fine mouser. He is also very spoilt, as much by Holmes and myself as by the servants, and one would never believe that he was once an unwanted stray.


	7. The Angel

**From Alosha135:7th - hair of gold**

I do worry about my Watson. He is too soft-hearted and sentimental - particularly at this time of year. It also seems to be somewhat easier to hurt or upset him since my hiatus.

He never says anything, not like he used to. Rather than shouting back at me, he seems more inclined to fall silent, dejected, and content himself with the occasional sarcastic remark (which is often made with a resigned and tired tone). I wonder whether we shall ever be the same.

This morning I found my friend already up and decorating a tree in our sitting room. I admit that I was not in the best humour. My bedroom is much smaller than his, as his room is the master, and has no hearth - it is freezing in December - and I had spent much of the night in cold and uncomfortable wakefulness.

"Good morning Holmes."

I can honestly not remember my reply, if I gave one at all, but I suspect that it was not terribly polite.

"Come now!" my companion protested as I threw myself into my chair and warmed my hands before the fire. "It is Christmas Eve! Surely even you could manage to be cheerful for just today and tomorrow?"

Watson is never cheerful after a restless night and so I felt that it was unfair of him to ask such a thing of me. Perhaps I should have said as much, as opposed to protesting that Christmas is merely a season in which the rich line their pockets with the pennies of the poor and that I had no desire to partake in the festivities. What I said is of course not without truth, but my words were harsh and I know only too well that the fellow likes this season.

He sighed and shrugged his shoulders. Usually, I would have recognised this as an indication that I had hurt him. On this occasion I was far too busy feeling sorry for myself.

"Why do we have to decorate anyway?"

"Because I want to."

Again, this should have indicated that I had gone far enough.

"You shall only have to take it all down again."

He shrugged.

I gazed at the decorations that were waiting on our sofa and frowned. "This angel for atop the tree. It is new?"

"Yes."

"What was wrong with the old one?"

"Nothing. I simply..."

I snorted. "You do so fritter your money. Why replace a thing when there is no need?"

"Deduce it."

I frowned at his turned back. "What do you mean, 'deduce it'?" I snapped. "Deduce what? You give me no data! You make no sense! Really Watson! I cannot fathom why you should choose to waste your money on gaudy ornaments..."

But the fellow was gone. I heard the door of his bedroom slam and heard him throw himself upon his bed.

I gazed at the object that had caused our argument. I had to admit that it was a pretty thing, but it was no more or less charming than the one that it had replaced. I picked it up and examined it closely, attempting to see it through the eyes of my Boswell. As angels usually are, it was female and wore a white gown. She held a harp and had white wings made of real feathers. Her eyes were blue, she had rosy cheeks and a smiling face. Her hair was gold.

I then saw his reason for his purchasing this angel. She looked rather like his deceased wife, Mary.

I have not spoken a word to him all day. I wish to apologise, but what can I say to him? What can I do?

_I do apologise about this one; it turned out to have rather more angst than intended._


	8. Perfect Weather

**From I'm Nova: 8) Perfect weather**

"Come on Holmes," I shouted impatiently as I waited for my companion at the foot of our stairs. "You did agree to this and the weather is quite perfect."

I heard my companion grumble in response, though I could not make out his words. There followed a loud crash.

"Damn!"

"What was that?" I asked. "Are you all right?"

"Yes Watson," he came out onto the landing and sped downstairs as he wrapped a thick muffler about his neck. "I could only find one of my boots. I knocked something over in my search. Well, shall we be off? I should prefer to get this humiliating experience over and done with as soon as possible. You are sure that the cold shan't trouble you?"

"Yes thank you Holmes," I responded with some annoyance. "I am quite well wrapped up against the weather."

His eyes swept over me for a moment and then he shrugged. "Very well."

We made our way to Regents Park, where a great many people were gathered already. There were children (and one or two adults) sliding down the hill on sledges, while battles were being fought with snowballs and men being made of snow.

I escorted Holmes to the lake, over which there was a thick layer of ice, and handed him the pair of skates that I had purchased for him the year before.

"Come along old fellow," said I with a smile. "Even you should be allowed an opportunity to enjoy yourself. Besides, you might one day have need of these skates during a case."

He snorted as he took the offered footwear and exchanged his boots for them. "I very much doubt it."

Holmes did not take long to remember how to skate and only fell over but the once. I, on the other hand, struggled more than I had anticipated as my wounds have left me somewhat stiff and ungainly.

I was just beginning to think that perhaps I should simply content myself with watching the rather more graceful skaters when my friend took me by the arm.

"Come along old chap," he said quietly and with a smile he guided me into the throng once more.

We remained skating until the sun started to sink low, casting a salmon-hued glow upon snow and ice. My leg was becoming increasingly stiff and painful as the temperature dropped, despite my many layers of clothing, and Holmes' expression as he steered us in the direction of the bank informed me that he could ignore it no longer, in spite of my protestations that I was perfectly all right.

"Thank you for persuading me to join you today," the fellow said quietly as we returned our cold boots to our chilled feet. "You were indeed right; I enjoyed myself very much. I have not skated since my university days."

I smiled at him and tried not to shiver. "It was good to see you so happy."

He patted my uninjured shoulder and then linked his arm through mine. "Come along Watson," said he with just the hint of a smile on his lips. "Let us see whether Mrs. Hudson has any mulled wine to offer to us."

It was a perfect proposal after such an activity and I readily agreed; the chill in the air already forgotten as we turned our steps in the direction of Baker Street.


	9. Dear Sherlock

**From SheWhoScrawls: December 9: Moriarty asks Mycroft what to buy Holmes for Christmas**

Sherlock

Today I met a fellow claiming to be a friend of yours. He was most interested to know what you would be the most willing to receive as a Christmas present. I did not like the look of the gentleman, as he appeared to find it necessary to lie to me at every opportunity, and so I told him to send you something that was the most likely to be submitted to the rubbish collection with the most haste.

If you must make enemies, my dear brother, could you please try to keep them away from my club as it is very tiresome to be subjected to their nonsense.

Mycroft


	10. Pipes and Lenses

**From Galaxy1001D: Dec 10th: Write a story where Sherlock Holmes uses his magnifying glass while smoking his pipe.**

_Author's note: I decided to take you at your word my dear, but I must confess that the result is quite possibly the strangest tale that I have ever written._

I shivered as I pulled my friend clear of the snow that had engulfed us both. I was dreadfully cold and knew that my companion would undoubtedly be suffering even more than myself, being so terribly thin.

I held Holmes close to me in an effort to shield him from the biting wind as I assessed him for injuries. I had not made much progress when his eyes flickered open and he groaned and coughed.

"Watson," he gasped tiredly. "Not hurt, are you Watson?"

I squeezed his hand reassuringly. "No old fellow; I am quite all right. But how are you? Is anything broken?"

I watched with no little confusion while he pulled his pipe from his pocket and examined it in hands that he could not quite keep from shaking with cold. He then checked his watch and compuss, followed by his magnifying lens.

"Everything is in order," said he with a small smile.

I could not help but return that smile, even though I felt somewhat exasperated. "I am glad that your equipment is all in order, but what about you?"

He dismissed my concern with an impatient wave of his hand and thrust his pipe between his teeth. Upon pulling his matchbook from his pocket he groaned and tossed it down at his feet.

"Damn! Watson, do you have a match?"

I pulled my own matches from my pocket only to discover that they were quite useless. My clothes were as soaked as his from the snow and so in turn everything within my them was damp at best.

"I am sorry Holmes."

He shrugged and gave me another pained smile. "Well, well, we shall just have to make use of what we do have," said he as he thrust his magnifying glass into my hand. "Do you think that you could light my pipe with this?"

Fortunately there was ample bright sunlight at our disposal and it did not take me very long to concentrate that light into a beam hot enough to light Holmes' pipe for him. The fellow beamed at me as I handed the lens back to him.

"Excellent Watson! And now, back to Baker Street."

We linked arms in an effort to assist one another in maintaining what little warmth we might still have in our chilled bodies and turned our steps in the direction of home.


	11. Any Port in a Storm

**Prompt from Sparky Dorian: 11. Blizzard.**

I shivered in my saddle and allowed my mount to slow his pace. The snow that had been falling lightly when Holmes and I had left the inn in search of further data for my companion's case (though what even Sherlock Holmes could find on that bleak, snow-coated moor in such conditions I could not imagine) had become a disorientating, vision-reducing blizzard within half an hour. My face was numb with the cold and my leg and shoulder pained me dreadfully with each gentle step of the stallion.

Ahead of me, I could see that my friend's shoulders were hunched and that his head was slightly bowed; he was as cold and miserable as myself.

I shivered again and then sneezed.

"Yes, all right Watson; I know that it is cold," Holmes snarled at me over his shoulder as if I had just voiced a complaint.

His words and tone hurt me much more than they should have done, for I knew that his reaction was most likely borne out of concern and frustration rather than anger aimed at me.

I sniffed quietly. "I am sorry Holmes. It is hardly a thing that I can control."

"No indeed. My apologies old fellow."

He slowed his horse so that we were riding side by side. I could see now that he was also shivering violently. I privately cursed the wretched weather and asked myself why my friend had insisted upon venturing out into it as we rode on in silence.

"I should not have dragged you out in this with me."

The words were so quiet I might have imagined them. I turned to frown at my companion.

"Your wounds are hurting you," he added in a tone that sounded much too detached to be spoken by the lips that shared a face with his concerned and searching eyes.

I sniffed again. "They always do in cold weather; you know that."

He nodded and fell silent again. Thus we continued for what might have been an eternity as the snow soaked our clothes and lashed our exposed faces.

I was becoming tired and dizzy. Most likely, this was due to exposure to the elements but I was convinced that it was merely from straining to see through the whirling snowflakes. I caused Holmes to jump when I sneezed a second time and the fellow addressed me with a sharp glare.

"What is it? Are you unwell?"

I shook my head and attempted to find a rather more comfortable position in the saddle. "It is only the cold air, I am sure."

He muttered something beneath his breath that was muffled by the snowflakes.

Just when I was beginning to succumb to weariness Holmes gave a little cry.

"Do you see that Watson? Do you see it?" he asked excitedly.

I peered through the swirling mass of white and the sudden gloom but could make out nothing. I shook my head tiredly and admitted that it was becoming too dark for me to see even the snowflakes before me.

"Don't give up now!" he shouted at me with such unexpected volume that I gave a start. "Watson! There is a building ahead! Shelter old fellow. Even if it is only a barn, it is something. Can you hurry your mount?"

It was not the horse that had decided to reduce our speed and I admitted as much.

"Damn! Watson, you told me that you were not unwell."

"I am not!" I protested. "I am only cold."

He snorted with exasperation and snatched my reins from me. "Hum! 'only cold' indeed! You are deucedly maddening when you wish it. Hold on old chap - for goodness sake see that you stay in the saddle."

With that we were moving along at a canter, which soon became a gallop. I might have felt considerably more sympathy for the poor cold and weary horses that we rode on were I not so tired and had I not ached so terribly with every movement of my mount.

Though I did my utmost to remain alert, exhaustion must have taken its toll. I do recall being jostled for what seemed an eternity and then we came to an abrupt halt.

"By Jove!" Holmes slid from the back of his horse and came to my side, shaking his head. "We must have gone around in a wide circle! We are back where we started. Well, at least we shall not have to risk getting lost trying to find our way back again at any rate! Can you get down? You must be dreadfully stiff. Allow me to assist you."

My companion quickly saw that the horses were well tended to and then lead me inside. He deposited me somewhat unceremoniously into an armchair and pushed it up close to the fire, which was burning brightly.

"Something warming," I heard him say to himself. "Watson, remove that wet coat and your shoes and warm yourself. Do not fall asleep; your very life may depend on it."

Sherlock Holmes does not say such things lightly and so I did my utmost to obey. All the same, I was dreadfully tired and found it increasingly difficult to keep my heavy eyelids from sliding shut.

"Watson! Watson, wake up! You must wake up!"

I groaned and forced one eye to open. "What?"

He thrust a cup to my lips. "Drink this. Well, if it is not too hot."

I tentatively sipped at it. It was hot and I grimaced.

"Hum. You are much too cold. I thought as much when I observed that you had ceased to shiver. This drink is really not as hot as it seems to you."

When I did begin to shiver, Holmes took it as a good sign and escorted me up to the little room that we had been forced to hire for the duration of our stay. I was too weary and my fingers too numb to undo my clothing; much to my chagrin and annoyance, my friend was forced to assist me and put me to bed. He then prepared himself and curled up behind me. Despite his concern, his skin was not very much warmer than mine and I was suddenly glad that the fellow had requested extra blankets.

Now that I knew that my companion was most likely in danger due to the terrible cold to which we had been subjected himself, it was not so difficult for me to keep myself awake and talking.

I believe that we mostly spoke nonsense. We both did a lot of laughing, I seem to recall. It is difficult to keep from smiling when Holmes is in the mood for joking. I soon felt very much improved and I believe that he did too.


	12. The Loch Ness Monster

**From SheWhoScrawls: December 12: The Loch Ness Monster**

Scotland in December is bleak and incredibly cold. Despite the shelter that Holmes and I had assembled with old branches and lined first with heather and the many rugs that we had brought and also in spite of our overcoats and heavy cloaks, we shivered as we kept our watch of the loch before us and huddled together for warmth.

"This is ridiculous," I grumbled to my companion. "How could the Loch Ness Monster possibly exist? This is nothing but a wild goose chase old fellow."

My friend sniffed. "You realise of course that the 'monster' could simply be a relic left from the time of the dinosaurs?"

"Well, it is not going to exist for long on its own is it?" I snorted. "Admit it Holmes. This is nothing but an elaborate hoax!"

The fellow merely shrugged and drew the rugs about us closer. "Never dismiss a thing until it is disproved old chap."

"If you are happy to remain here I shall stay with you."

He smiled and touched my wrist. "Thank you Watson. Your support and company is appreciated."

I shivered anew. "Your hands are cold! Have we any more brandy? I think that you need some."

"We should try to make it last," he responded as he pressed himself closer to me.

I had to agree; it would not do to run out of our warming drink when our vigil had barely begun.

A snowstorm arrived as night fell. As the snow covered our shelter in its heavy blanket, the temperature within gradually became the more comfortable.

"Mm," Holmes mumbled as he rested his head upon my shoulder. "Not so cold now."

I smiled. "Are you tired old fellow?"

"Work never makes me tired," he declared sleepily. This is indeed true, but we had barely moved since we took to that shelter and I know that idling does wear the fellow out.

As I listened, my companion's breathing became regular as he fell into slumber. With a hum of contentment he settled himself more comfortably and mumbled something that sounded as if he was bidding me a good night.

"Sleep well Holmes," I barely breathed in reply as I drew our rugs closer. I did not wish for my friend to become too cold while he slept.

I awoke with a start to find daylight streaming in through the gap in the branches that served as a door and that Holmes had left me alone, wrapped in the rugs.

With some alarm I shrugged off the rugs and left the lean-to in search of my companion. I found him down on his face in the snow, quite heedless of the chill in the air. He sat up on his knees when I approached and gestured at the snow before him with his magnifying lens.

"It must have passed our camp during the night," he grumbled when I joined him. "Why the deuce did you permit me to fall asleep?"

I shrugged and sniffed. "You were tired."

"I distinctly remember informing you that I was not."

"Yes indeed; moments before you succumbed to slumber."

"Hum," he gave me a small, rueful smile. "Perhaps you did only have my best interests at heart..." my friend then thrust his glass back inside his pocket with a groan. "But we slept through a perfect opportunity...!"

I touched his arm gently. "Some mysteries are simply best left unanswered perhaps. At least you found some traces, even if you did not catch sight of the beast itself."

Despite my best efforts to comfort my companion, however, he remained despondent and annoyed until the next interesting case presented itself. It truly was a relief when it did.


	13. Silent Suffering

**From Book girl fan: 13: He who talks last, suffers most.**

It had been a long and difficult case. I had been able to spare Watson much of the strain by leaving him at home when I could afford to, but that had meant that I had had to work tirelessly with little food and no sleep. It was no hardship; I am accustomed to such treatment during cases.

I do not remember the walk from Scotland Yard to Baker Street but I do recall that I was shivering so violently when I reached the house that it was difficult to unlock the front door. I somehow climbed the stairs and managed to reach the settee. I must have fallen asleep upon it.

When I awoke, my head was aching. This is quite normal; it often does following a long case. Watson had wrapped a rug about me while I had been in slumber but still I felt chilled. This is also not unusual. I pulled the rug about my shoulders and sat up.

"Oh, you are awake," my companion smiled at me as he approached the settee and then sat himself at my side. "Are you all right?"

I nodded and sniffed. "Merely fagged old fellow. It was a long case."

"Indeed it was. Is there anything that I can do for you? You are rather pale even for you."

"No. I am all right. Sleep is all that I need."

"And food, I should think."

I did not feel hungry; I was much too worn. "Later."

"Holmes..."

"Later Watson! Leave me!"

The fellow shook his head sadly and did indeed leave me alone, allowing me to return to a horizontal position and submit myself to Morpheus once more.

When I next awoke I had a further two rugs covering me and it was dark. Despite all the sleep, my head still ached, as did the rest of me. I realised that I had a raging thirst and poured myself a brandy, partly for my hot and dry throat and partly to rid myself of the chills that I still felt. I wondered whether I was still only done up or if I had caught something while I was working feverishly at that case. I hoped that it was the former and not the latter as I had not been sharing rooms with the doctor for long enough to feel that I knew him well and I had no desire to be tended to by him under such circumstances.

It was as I was drinking my second glass of brandy that I realised that I was alone. I then noticed a note left wedged in the frame of our mirror above the mantelpiece. I plucked it from between wood and glass and read the familiar doctors' scrawl of my Boswell. He had gone out to do some shopping and would be back in time for tea.

By the time Watson returned I knew that I was unwell. My throat burned with a fire that no amount of water, to which I had resorted, could extingish and my head and eyes were hurting me to the point of spots in my vision and nausea. I would have taken to my bed to be out of the way had I been able to move myself at all. As it was, I was still stretched upon the settee when he found me.

"Holmes! Are you all right?" he is a kindly chap, my Boswell. He forgot his boxes and the aches in his wounded leg and shoulder from the cold and rushed to my side. "What is it? What is wrong?"

Had I known the fellow better, I might have told him. As it was, we had not been lodging together for long and it is not in a gentleman's code to complain in any case. Besides, I do not like to be poked and prodded and he is a doctor.

My friend took my silence as reluctance to admit that I had done wrong. He frowned. "Have you over-indulged in cocaine or morphine?"

I cannot blame the fellow for making such a presumption. Both morphine and cocaine can cause symptoms rather like those of la grippe and my nose was indeed becoming runny. I shrugged and sniffed, which only served to worsen the pain in my head. I moaned in spite of myself.

"I have no sympathy for you," he informed me with annoyance. "Take yourself off to your room so that I do not have to look at you."

His words hurt me rather more than I would have expected. I attribute that to the illness; I have never expected and rarely received sympathy and I am sure that I would normally have remained indifferent.

"Go to bed," Watson repeated as if he were talking to a fellow that was either very deaf or obtuse when I did not even attempt to move.

"Can't."

"Then I shall do my wrapping in my bedroom. Get some sleep."

Exhausted as I was, I obeyed.

When I next awoke, I appeared to be in the middle of a coughing fit. I ached from the top of my head to the tips of my toes and I was shaking with cold.

"Here," my Boswell helped me to drink some water and then pressed a hand to my forehead. "Oh! You are fevered! That is not from cocaine; it raises the temperate as it does its work, not as it wears off."

He proceeded to feel my glands. That seemed to tell him all that he needed to know.

"You have not taken anything at all, have you?"

"No."

"Then why the deuce did you permit me to think that you had?" he demanded with poorly-contained annoyance. "I would never have shouted at you had I known. Nor would I have left you."

I shrugged.

"Well, at least I know now. The first thing to do is to bring that fever down and make you comfortable. Then I shall see to your other complaints."

I did not enjoy his tending to me in the slightest, but I did appreciate the chap's kindness and concern. I was surprised to learn just how much my Boswell felt for me, for his level of care went above and beyond that of a doctor's duties. I was truly very touched.

I still do not like to complain or allow anyone to know when I am vulnerable in any way, but I have learnt to trust my Watson as a doctor as well as a friend and that in itself is a vast improvement.


	14. The Missing Housekeeper

**From mrspencil and Ennui Enigma: 14/ Mrs Hudson is missing**

I was startled from a doze before the fire by my intimate friend Sherlock Holmes, who was bellowing at the top of his voice on the landing.

"Mrs. Hudson! Mrs. Hudson! Where the deuce are the tea things?"

I rubbed a hand across my eyes and gazed up at the clock. It was just after four and so tea was only slightly overdue. I decided to go and tell the fellow to allow our housekeeper to go about her duties in peace.

I had just stepped onto the landing when the page ran up the stairs. "Mr. Holmes, she went out for shopping more than an hour ago and she's not back yet. Sorry Mr. Holmes. I'm sure she's had to walk slower than she expected in this weather."

"Yes indeed," said I with no small amount of sympathy.

Holmes grunted in contemplative agreement and dismissed him. He stood with his eyes closed and his fingers beating a rhythm upon the bannister beside him for a time and then he gave a sudden start and leapt down the stairs.

"Come Watson!"

Once we were both well dressed for the conditions, we stepped out into the street. Snow hung in the air and crunched underfoot, obscuring treacherous icy patches.

Holmes linked his arm through mine and tested the pavement before us with his cane, advising me to follow his lead. When I slipped he kept me from falling and I did the same when his feet found a hidden patch of ice. It felt as if we had been walking for an age when we were hailed by one of Holmes' little street arabs.

"I was just coming to find you!" he gasped as he skidded to a halt. "It's Mrs. Hudson. She fell over and she says her leg hurts. We can't move her, we can't. She's getting terrible cold."

I had to keep my companion from breaking into a run. "It would never do to have one of us taking a dangerous fall as well old fellow," I reminded him quietly. "We shall have to have a care."

He nodded and squeezed my arm. "Thank you Watson. Quite right."

When we found Mrs. Hudson, she was pale and drawn, her face telling me that she was indeed in tremendous pain. The Irregulars were doing their utmost to protect her from the cold by surrounding her and they had piled their own ragged and meagre clothing atop her.

"We done all we could, see?" our guide said breathlessly.

Holmes smiled at him. "You have done very well Andrew. Now, I think that we shall need a cab; could you boys go and find one? Here is some money."

With the promise of a good wage when their work was done, the group scampered away. Once we were alone, Holmes assisted me in assessing the damage done to our dear housekeeper's leg. She had a clean fracture, which was a small blessing, but my bag was back at the house.

"I could send one of the boys back for it," Holmes suggested.

I shook my head. "We have to get Mrs. Hudson in out of this weather as quickly as possible or she may contract pneumonia."

As if to illustrate my point, the lady gave a violent shiver.

I took her hand in mine and squeezed it gently. "Are there any sticks about that could be used as splints Holmes?"

"I shall check. Are you truly going to set her leg here?"

I had no choice. In order to get Mrs. Hudson to a hospital in one piece it was vital. Holmes agreed and was gone for some time, leaving me to comfort the brave woman at my side.

Holmes returned with some makeshift splints at almost the same moment as the Irregulars. The cabby looked on for a time, obviously thinking that it was good enough of him to wait, but then my companion began deligating as only he can.

In no time at all, we had Mrs. Hudson's leg splinted using our scarves and an old table leg and part of a Billiard cue. We then helped her into the waiting cab and were on our way at the greatest speed the cabby dared go.

We soon had the dear lady secured in a hospital bed, though Holmes did not like to leave her. He insisted that it was simply because he only likes her fine cooking, but the expression on his face and the way that his gaze lingered upon her when we promised to visit her left me with the impression that his stomach was the last thing upon his mind.


	15. Beaten

**From cjnwriter: Dec 15: Lestrade beats Holmes at something**

It is not easy to best Sherlock Holmes as he is so very masterful and quick-witted. Sometimes however, I have found an area in which he has little to no knowledge or skill.

We had just completed a case with Lestrade. It was a day or two after Boxing Day and the Christmas decorations were still in evidence throughout his welcoming home. He showed us into the parlor and offered us each a warming drink.

"Daddy! Daddy!" a small boy ran in with a ball tucked under his arm. "Can we go to the park now? You promised! You said we could as soon as you got home."

Lestrade gave us a look that pleaded for sympathy and then took to one knee in order to answer his son.

"Now Tim, let me just tend to my guests and then we'll go to the park. All right?"

Tim looked far from happy but he nodded. "Yes Daddy," said he with quiet obedience. He then turned to leave the room.

"Come over here Tim," Holmes instructed with a small smile and a flick of his long fingers. "Come and sit by the fire with me."

The boy did so rather shyly.

My companion slipped a hand inside his pocket for a moment and then crouched so that he was at eye level with the young child. "How old are you Tim?"

"I'm six."

"Mr. Holmes," his father prompted.

"I'm six Mr. Holmes," he repeated politely.

Holmes allowed his smile to broaden. "Would you like sixpence?"

"Now Holmes," Lestrade began in protest.

He held up a hand for silence, still smiling at the young boy. "You seem to have something in your ear Tim. Might I take a look. Ah! I thought that it was..."

To Tim's astonishment he snatched something and held it up. It was a shiny six penny piece.

"Was that really inside my ear?" the boy asked as my friend handed it to him.

"Indeed it was, so it would be wrong of me to take it from you," said he with another smile. "Now then Tim, where was it that you wish go to?"

The child smiled at my companion as if he were an old friend. "To the park Mr. Holmes. Daddy said that he'd show me how to play football."

Holmes pointed toward me. "Doctor Watson is good at sports. He used to play rugby for Blackheath, he has told me."

How I wished at that moment that I had never mentioned it! All the same, I admitted that although I had once been strong and able, I was no longer the man I had been.

"Come now Doctor," Lestrade said with a smile. "I'm sure you and Mr. Holmes would be more than a match for me and my son!"

Holmes suddenly seemed less than enthusiastic about football and I suspected that he had intended for me to somehow entertain the child while he and Lestrade talked in peace. He did not back down however, and the four of us made our way to the park.

Lestrade chose a patch of grass upon which he had played football with his brother and friends as a boy and pointed out some trees that served as goal posts. The game then commenced.

I did not make a good sporting companion. I was already stiff and cold after the case and my leg and shoulder made kicking, running and stopping goals almost impossible. Holmes was fast and seemed to be almost everywhere at once and yet the ball still seemed to be everywhere that he was not.

Lestrade had not forgotten how to kick a ball and his son, though young and still without a strong kicking action, was not without some skill. They beat us soundly.

Holmes at last had to admit defeat and held up a hand to indicate that he had had enough as he leant wearily on the trunk of one of our goal posts. He was quite out of breath.

"I think we've won Tim," Lestrade announced, swinging his son up onto his shoulders. "Come on, let's get back inside. Would you and Doctor Watson like to stay for tea, Mr. Holmes? Mrs. Lestrade will lay on a good spread for us."

We returned to the inspector's home to be greeted with the smell of tea, cakes and mince pies.

The meal was a pleasant affair, but Holmes was rather put out when our host boasted to his wife that he and their son had "finally found something that Holmes can be beaten at" and insisted that it was only because we were both so weary after the recent case.

It was of course quite true, but Lestrade was also quite right when he snorted and replied with the indignant words "And how do you think I feel?"


	16. A Haunting Night

**From Wordwielder: 16) The Ghost of Christmas Past**

I was awoken in the middle of the night one Christmas Eve by a cry of alarm from downstairs. I know my companion to be a very light sleeper and of the two of us I am the one most prone to bad dreams, while he tends not to sleep at all if he is troubled. It was for this very reason that I snatched up my revolver before I took to the stairs.

Sherlock Holmes was not in his bed and the covers were still undisturbed. I was just making my way to the door which connects his bedroom to our sitting room when another cry reached my ears and quickened my actions. I all but flew into the room, despite my protesting old wounds, with gun at the ready.

I found my companion flailing in great agitation upon the sofa. The room was otherwise unoccupied.

For a moment I stood watching the fellow as I wondered what action I should take, but then I realised that he might throw himself to the floor at any moment in his distress and quickly hastened to secure him.

"Holmes?" I called to my friend gently when he attempted to punch me. "Holmes, can you hear me? It is only Watson."

He gave a start and his eyes flew open and stared back at me, wild and unseeing.

"It is only me old fellow," I repeated gently as I squeezed his shoulder. "It was just a bad dream."

But Holmes was not listening. He brushed me aside and then half jumped and half fell onto the floor with much less than his usual grace. He seemed to be peering beneath the sofa.

"What are you doing?"

Again he gave a start and then he looked up at me, finally realising that I was present. "Where is he Watson? Where did the blackguard go? Come out damn you! How dare you come and haunt me in the middle of the night!"

"What are you talking about?" I demanded.

"The ghost!" he shouted back at me. "For Heaven's sake Watson! You must surely have heard it, even if the fiend did vanish away when you came in. Though why the Ghost of Christmas Past would come as a goose I cannot quite understand."

I started to laugh. "It was a bad dream old boy. I expect that you have had a little too much rich food and brandy before bed. Unless you have a guilty conscience, of course?"

"My conscience is quite clear thank you."

"Good. I thought that it would be. In that case, I prescribe a drink of water and then a good night's sleep. Good rest old fellow."

"Good night Watson. Uh... I am sorry to have disturbed you."

"Not at all," said I with a yawn. "Would you like some company?"

"Lest the spectral goose returns? No, I am all right. Go back to bed old chap; you need rather more sleep than I do."

"Piffle," I snorted. "Sleep," I ordered as I left the room to return to my waiting bed.


	17. Snow!

**From cjnwriter: Dec 17: Snow!**

I dislike snow. Britain gets far too much of it. By the time December has arrived the snow clouds are already moving in and they oft stay even when Spring has supposedly arrived.

Watson enjoys looking at it. He claims that it is beautiful. When topping a distant mountain or setting a scene on a Christmas card, I agree that it is. When it is interfering with my cases it is a damned nuisance!

Three times this week, I have had to exit the house by window because the snow had drifted into such a high pile in front of our door and then I had to enlist my Irregulars in assisting me to clear the front door. Once was quite enough for my taste; I do not enjoy taking exercise without good reason. Though I must admit that the cold and exertion did sharpen my appetite and cause me to better appreciate my breakfast.

Next Wintertime, Watson and I shall holiday somewhere warm. I care not where; anywhere away from these intolerable snow clouds would be quite heavenly.


	18. Madam Fortunata

**From Hades Lord of the Dead: Fortune teller**

My career has caused me to assume many guises and I have frequently amazed my Watson. I believe that the disguise that I am shrouded in now would astound him but most likely not meet with his approval. Well, needs must and I do not need his approval.

"Come in! Come in and let old Madam Fortunata tell all dearie! What will it be? Palm reading?"

I think that he might find the dress a step too far. I am rather pleased with it myself; it is just right for an old fortune teller. The big earrings look the part as well, even if they do pinch.

"Hello there dearie! Come in."

It should not be long now. I know that the man whom I suspect has a weakness for fortune tellers and I should be able to frighten him easily enough. If I play this right he should panic and run straight into Hopkins' waiting hands. I can return home then and eat something; I have not had a bite since breakfast and it is already rather late for supper. I may have to simply devour a loaf of bread or something. At least Watson should be in bed by then. I would prefer to tell him of tonight's adventures in the morning, after food and sleep. What the deuce has he done to me? I am sure that I could manage without thinking of either before he began interfering. And yet I miss his company tonight.

"Hello dearie. Come in and let old Madam Foirtunata reveal all."

My work is now done, the case concluded, but the queue seems endless. I had not anticipated this. Watson will no doubt find it amusing. When I return home.


	19. Brotherly Companionship

**From Book girl fan: 19: Brotherly affection at Christmastime.**

_Author's note: A very big thank you for all of the reviews. I know that I respond by PM but I felt that I should officially thank everyone; I have never received so many before and they have been very encouraging. Thank you!_

I am not indifferent to Christmas, but I am not as sentimental as my Boswell. He is always cheerful at this time of year and he enjoys shopping for gifts and decorating a tree.

I have few acquaintances to purchase gifts for and I do not see the point in wasting time and energy putting up decorations only to have to take them down again. On the other hand, I do like to see my Watson happy. His old wounds trouble him terribly during the cold months and it pleases me to know that my presence can make a difference to the fellow.

Last Christmas, our first one spent together at Baker Street, was almost disasterous and so I planned to make rather more of an effort this year.

First I purchased one or two gifts for Watson and had them wrapped for the occasion in the shop. I then gave Mrs. Hudson all that remained of my money and instructed her to purchase the finest goose that she could. I am particularly fond of goose for Christmas dinner.

I did not speak to Watson of Christmas at all, deciding instead to appear indifferent. The fellow was busy anyway; he had made many friends during just the first year of our acquaintance and so he was out exchanging greetings and gifts with them all while I busied myself with experiments and such. I was too engrossed to notice the fellow's absence.

It was approaching dinnertime when my Boswell returned, limping heavily and shivering with cold.

"Merry Christmas Holmes," said he as he took to his armchair.

I snatched up a rug and swathed him in it. "And to you my dear friend," I responded with a smile. "Would you like a brandy or whisky?"

He shook his head and pulled the rug closer with a grateful smile. "Later perhaps; when we have eaten."

"You are hungry then?"

He nodded and sniffed. "I have not stopped Holmes. Between visiting friends and checking on patients before the Christmas holiday..."

I had forgotten that he would also be required to make house calls. "Make yourself comfortable old fellow," I advised him. "Dinner will be served in just a quarter of an hour. Are you quite sure that there is nothing that I can do for you?"

"You can sit down and talk with me," said he with a smile. "I have been thinking of little else while I was on my rounds."

It occurred to me that nothing could give me greater pleasure and I complied readily. We talked of this, that and nothing in particular until we were presented with our dinner. I poured the port and squeezed my dear friend's shoulder before taking my seat.

"Your good health Watson."

"Thank you Holmes. And yours."

We then set to in companionable silence. I have never felt so at home as I do while I am in my Boswell's company. The fellow is more of a brother to me than my own Mycroft.

Merry Christmas Watson.


	20. Holmes for Christmas

**From cjnwriter: Dec 20: A seriously injured Holmes shows up at Watson and Mary's house on Christmas Eve**

I had just completed my patients' visits and returned to my home to discover that the tree that I had selected earlier in the day had been delivered in my absence. Mary and the servants had set it up in our parlor between the armchairs in front of the window.

"It's a lovely tree John," she remarked with a happy smile. "Warm yourself while I bring down the decorations. I should like to make a start at least before dinner."

Before I could reply there was a knock at our door. I had no intention of answering it, but there was something familiar about the sound that caused me to go to the door and I reached it before the maid. The sight that greeted me chilled me much more than the cold air that assailed me. Sherlock Holmes was all but lying upon my step, blood running from beneath his sleeve and dripping upon the step. His leg was obviously paining him dreadfully as well, for it would not take his wait.

Holmes attempted to smile. "S'ry to b'ther yuh W'son," he whispered before collapsing altogether.

"Who is it John?" my wife asked as she stepped into the hall behind me.

"Mary I need my bag," I called to her as I attempted to keep my old friend's unconscious body up and away from the cold step. "And see that the couch in my consulting room is in order; we are going to have a patient making use of it for a day or two."

My dear wife gave no arguments and was away again at once, while I pulled my friend inside and shut the front door. Poor Holmes! He had lost a lot of blood and was cold to the touch. I feared that I might be unable to save the fellow.

Despite aching limbs and numb fingers I carried Holmes to my consulting room and set him down upon the freshly-prepared couch. I then sent for my neighbour to assist me while I assessed my friend's injuries.

By the time Anstruther arrived I had discovered that Holmes had a shallow (but quite serious enough) gash to his stomach and that he had stab wounds to his back, arms, legs and shoulder. Under the knife wounds, bruises were also present, suggesting that he had been kicked and punched as well. Yet in spite of this, he had clearly put up quite a fight for his stick had multiple nicks in it and I could see that he had also made good use of his fists. I felt sick as I realised that there must have been more than one man fighting him. How I wished that I had been with him when he was attacked.

Anstruther and I tended to my old friend's wounds and made him comfortable first of all. We then fed Holmes some small quantities of water in an attempt to assist his body in righting itself after losing so much blood. There was little more that could be done and so I prepared to remain at his side and watch over him while Mary decorated our tree alone.

"Watson."

The quiet voice pulled me from a doze that I had not realised that I had succumbed to and I forced myself awake hastily to find Holmes' weary eyes gazing at me from beneath heavy lids.

"Hello Holmes," I whispered back as I gently touched his less-injured hand. "Please stay quiet for now. You should not talk."

"Nonsense. It is not as bad as it seems," he attempted to smile. "I think I have been worse..."

I shook my head. "Your condition is quite bad enough old fellow. You shall have to stay in bed for a few days."

"I shall die of boredom!"

"You are much more likely to die of complications of some kind," I snapped back at him. "Stop being so ridiculous. Have a drink - you must drink plenty of water to make up for all the blood that you have lost - and try to sleep."

"Pah!" he folded his arms and then gave a quiet gasp of pain.

I nodded, somehow remaining sympathetic. "You are badly hurt old fellow. You must rest and submit yourself to my ministrations for now."

I did not offer Holmes any Christmas dinner that evening as the blood-loss would have left him without appetite. I instead ensured that he had plenty to drink and was comfortable and did not leave his side unless Mary was at hand.

I watched the stars through the open curtains of the consulting room so as to remain wakeful. I was still awake, if more than a little weary, when daybreak arrived with the chimes of church bells.

Holmes awoke at just after ten o'clock and claimed to be feeling well enough to return to Baker Street and "impose no longer", but I could not allow that. He was clearly still far from well.

Mary and I opened our Christmas presents with our friend and entertained him (when he was awake) with festive songs, carols and short stories. We did our utmost to make him feel welcome, as he had been quite horrified when he realised that he had arrived on our doorstep on Christmas Eve.

"I should not have bothered you," Holmes muttered again as I changed his bandages. "What must you think of me?"

"I think that you were wise to seek help," I told him firmly. "Do stop fretting."

He gave me the ghost of a smile. "You are too good to me."

And he was beginning to worry me, for this was not like my friend at all. I decided to change the subject. "What happened to you old fellow? Can you remember?"

"Of course I can Watson; I still have all my faculties," he groaned and closed his eyes. "My apologies old fellow. I did not mean that. I was surrounded by four men... I was more than a match for them until they pulled out knives. Even then..." he gave a sudden shiver and winced. "Even then, my stick and I gave them one or two things to think about."

I touched his hand gently. "I take it that this was courtesy of a case."

"Yes. My quarry was feeling threatened," he shrugged and then flinched with pain. "It means that I am warm, as the children say."

"You should have taken me along with you."

He smiled and then shook his head. "I could not do that to Mrs. Watson. Least of all at this time of year."

I felt a lump come to my throat as I realised that he had kept me from danger to spare my wife.

"Did I do wrong?"

I shook my head and did my utmost to smile at him. "I am very touched," I assured him. "Mary will be as well. All the same, an extra pair of fists, a heavy stick and an old service revolver would have evened the odds rather. Next time that there is danger include me in the case."

Holmes remained in my consulting room all that week and then he moved into my guest room after that. I am sure that he would not have remained so long or submitted to my ministrations with such little fuss were I any other doctor (in fact, he would usually make much more of a fuss about my own directives in any case) and I found myself wondering whether I had been missed.


	21. The Policemen's Party

**Prompt from I'm Nova: 21) Drunk Inspector(s)**

I enjoy parties and the Scotland Yarders are excellent company at this time of year. It was for these reasons that I permitted myself to be persuaded to attend their Christmas celebrations and cajoled Holmes into accompanying me.

Holmes does not enjoy parties. I could see him becoming increasingly tense as we approached the public house that had been rented for the evening, until I felt that I had to enquire whether the fellow was all right.

"Yes Watson," he snapped brusquely in response to the question. "I simply do not relish the prospect of spending an evening with drunken imbeciles."

"My dear Holmes!"

He gave me a long-suffering stare and then closed his eyes tiredly. "Watson, Watson! You shall soon see for yourself what the Yarders can be like when they are not bound by duties," he snorted and thumped the side of the carriage with a gloved hand. "I only hope that they shall not be unexpectedly required tonight; they are probably already even less capable than usual."

I did not like his attitude at all and so I fell silent for a moment or two. "Well, I for one intend to enjoy myself," I said at last with a shrug of my shoulders.

He shrugged in turn. "Please, do not allow me to influence you; have a good time by all means."

Upon arrival, we found Inspectors Gregory and Jones with their arms about one another as they sang some rather unusual versions of popular Christmas carols.

"Doctor Watson!" Lestrade approached us none too steadily and shook me warmly by the hand. "Nice t'see you cud make it... 'nd that you p'swaded Scrooge 'ere t' join us."

Holmes addressed us both with a cold glare that was aimed down his nose and then stalked away.

I cannot recall very much of the party to mind, but Holmes has informed me in no uncertain terms that I made a fool of myself; though no more so than the Scotland Yarders.

I do vaguely remember Holmes rolling an unconscious Lesrade onto his side and shouting at all and sundry about common sense. I also have a confused recollection of someone dancing upon a tabletop and kicking bottles and drinking glasses in all directions.

I believe that I did nothing worse than telling one or two jokes that I learnt while I was in service (which seemed to prove popular with the official police force) and perhaps joining in with a song or two. I shall not ask Holmes exactly what transpired though; I get the impression that parties are very interesting things when a fellow is the only one of a roomful who is not drinking.

_Author's note: I admit that this is not one of my best attempts, but it is a quarter to three in the morning and I am somewhat "off my game" in any case. I only hope that you enjoy it regardless._


	22. Must Eat

**Prompt from Galaxy1001D: Dec 22: Write a story where Watson and Mycroft force the constantly dieting Holmes to eat a hearty meal.**

_I am not sure that I would call it "dieting", exactly, but I shall do my best._

"I am not hungry."

I ran a hand across my weary face and turned to the elder Holmes for assistance.

"When did you last eat Sherlock?" Mycroft asked quietly.

Holmes shrugged and continued to stare out of the window.

I stepped in front of him and slowly crouched so that I was at eye level with him while he sat. "If you continue like this your stomach will shrink until you can no longer manage a bite. Do you want that?"

"I am not hungry Watson," he repeated with a slight shiver. "Besides, I cannot spare energy for digesting. This case...!"

I frowned as he started to bite his nails. "That is not going to do you any good. Stop biting your nails and eat something; even if it is just an apple."

Mycroft Holmes shook his head at me. "This case has him too much on edge to eat," he informed me. "I suspect that he is feeling sick."

My companion frowned angrily at the words and turned in his chair to meet his brother's gaze. "That is utter nonsense! Cases do not make me ill!"

"Then prove me wrong my dear Sherlock," he replied with a smirk.

Holmes gave an exclamation of frustrated annoyance and sprang from his chair. He stalked to our fruit dish, snatched up an apple and bit into it with more aggression than I had ever seen in him before.

"There," he snapped at us both. "I have eaten. Are you satisfied? Now do please go away and interfere with some other poor fellow's affairs."

And with that we were banished from the sitting room with a dismissive sweep of the hand.


	23. A Visitor

**From Sparky Dorian: 23. A large, jolly, bearded man comes to Baker Street claiming to be Saint Nick. Could he be the real thing?**

It was about three o'clock on Christmas eve and Holmes and I had just returned home. I had somehow managed to persuade the fellow to join me for a spot of Christmas shopping, not that he had enjoyed it much. We had not long settled ourselves with pipes, slippers and hot drinking chocolate when Mrs. Hudson came in with a calling card.

Holmes took the card and frowned. "Hum! Very well Mrs. Hudson. Show the fellow in."

In stepped a portly gentleman in furs with white hair and a long beard. He looked an awful lot like the Saint Nicholas from the Christmas cards and story illustrations.

I watched as Holmes circled our visitor with his hands in his pockets.

"You are rather early," said he. "You also have the wrong address; there are no children living here. Not unless you count our page boy, but then you would have the wrong floor."

I must confess that I was more than a little surprised, for I would not have expected a man like Holmes to have even believed in Saint Nicholas as a young boy.

The man only laughed heartily and took a seat on our sofa. "I have come to deliver gifts for you to pass on Sherlock; for the children to whom you are responsible that have no address at which I can call."

"My Irregulars shall be most grateful, I am sure," said he. "Thank you. I shall pass them on tomorrow."

When Saint Nicholas had left us with his gifts for the Irregulars I could contain my curiosity no longer and questioned my companion.

"Holmes, how could you possibly know that that man was indeed Saint Nicholas simply by his card?"

He laughed and threw himself into his chair. "Oh Watson! Of course I did not know him from his card! I recognised him old fellow."

"Recognised him? How? From where?"

He shook his head and began to load his pipe. "I met him once as a boy. I got up in the night, having had rather more hot chocolate to drink than was wise, and went to investigate a noise from our sitting room rather than returning to bed. I believe that I accused the fellow of being a burglar and attempted to pull off his beard."

I laughed. "Good Heavens! What did he say?"

"That all good boys should be sleeping in their beds at such an hour and that it would be wise for me to return to mine."

"And that was that?"

Holmes shrugged. "I recall being left a note that informed me that five year old children should not take on burglars in the early hours of the morning single-handedly. My nanny was most alarmed, I believe. I was not left any coal though, as I had been endeavouring to protect my home and family," he chuckled. "Instead, I was given my very first magnifying lens."

It was a remarkable tale, though I am sure that it is not one that I could possibly submit to the Strand.

_Author's note: I am sorry that I have fallen so behind (with reading and reviewing as much as with my own scribblings) I am afraid that I have been a little unwell._


	24. Too Close for Comfort

**From I'm Nova: 24. At the last possible moment**

"Come Watson!"

Holmes was across the many rows of tracks that we had been examining in a series of leaps and bounds, unhampered by the snow or the shifting gravel or slippery ice that it obscured.

I did my utmost to keep up with the fellow but my trousers were cold, wet and heavy from the snow and my wounded leg was paining me as a consequence. I was not midway across one of the tracks when my leg slipped beneath me and I fell heavily.

Shock prevented me from feeling any pain for a moment or two and I was only beginning to realise that my leg was now paining me dreadfully when Holmes appeared at my side and crouched to assess the harm done. I did not have to dig the obscuring snow away to know that my leg was both twisted at a horrible angle and trapped.

"All right old fellow," my companion squeezed the shoulder that was not injured in Afghanistan. "I shall soon have you free. Be a good chap and remain as still and quiet as you can manage."

I did my utmost to obey my friend but I was unable to keep myself from shivering with cold. Sitting in the snow was causing me to become chilled rapidly.

"Here," Holmes thrust his coat about me and continued to work on my leg. "Can't have you catching a cold in these miserable conditions."

I had been about to protest but I instead sneezed as if on cue, causing my trapped leg to be jerked unmercifully beneath me.

"Stay still!" my friend chastised me. "Your leg is almost free now and then we can go home."

"Sorry Holmes," I responded with a sniff. It was then that I realised to my horror that the track upon which I was sitting was clicking and trembling beneath me.

My companion gave a cry of outrage as I tried to push him away and insist that he leave me to my fate. "I am not going to abandon my Boswell now!" he shouted at me. "So you can either allow me to free you or else permit me to await the train at your side."

"You should save yourself," I insisted as I watched him resume his work.

"Do you honestly believe that I could simply go on as always without you?" he snapped back at me. "I have no reason to save myself. Now, remain still and keep quiet. Please."

I did as he told me but wished all the while that he would leave me. I could hear the train now and see the smoke from its funnel. The sight turned me cold and sick.

As the train grew ever closer I became increasingly mindful of it until I barely noticed the dreadful pain in my trapped leg or the work of my friend. The engine was soon close enough to hear its clicks, rattles and chugs clearly.

"Holmes..."

"Watson do please be quiet. You are almost free."

The engine was also bearing down upon us. I closed my eyes tightly. "Get clear Holmes! Please!"

"We can both get clear! You are free. Can you stand?"

Before I could respond my friend had his strong arms about me and was helping me to my feet. I was all too aware of the engine bearing down upon us, but my companion seemed oblivious. He took great care as he adjusted his supportive hold of me and then we were slowly picking our way across the lines together as if there was no danger at all, which could not have been further from the truth. Even if we were not about to be hit by the oncoming train, we both knew that we would be pulled along behind it by the air currents it brought in its wake.

We reached safety together, panting with exertion and both trembling as much with fear as with cold. It took some moments for us both to realise that we had somehow survived and I gripped my friend's hand tightly, too overcome to speak a word.

"There you are!" an angry voice shouted. "What the devil did you think you were playing at? You're lucky that there is a signalman on this stretch of track or the train would never have stopped in time!"

I gazed at Holmes and he stared back at me. We then turned our heads as one to see the engine, still hissing and steaming, standing upon the spot where I had fallen. We must have made our escape at the last possible moment.


	25. Learning Something New

**From mrspencil and Ennui Enigma: 25. An unexpected Christmas holiday tradition**

I cannot remember the last time that I enjoyed a Christmas dinner - or even the last occasion upon which I partook of one. It was most certainly before I left school, a long time ago now.

I did not even bother with Christmas when I lived alone. There was no reason to. Sharing rooms with Watson has changed that, for the fellow seems determined to forget Afghanistan and celebrate with me. I cannot say that I blame him; I can see at a glance that he has suffered much.

The goose is excellent. I had almost forgotten how much I enjoy goose for Christmas dinner. The accompanying port is rich and warming; just the thing for such a cold Winter's night.

My eyelids are becoming deucedly heavy by the time our dinner plates are cleared away. I am tempted to excuse myself but Watson has already mentioned a pudding and I am fond of desserts.

The sight and smell of the rich Christmas pudding banishes all thoughts of sleep the moment that it arrives and Watson and I set to with a will.

I am just about to remark to my companion that this pudding is a delight, for it tastes delicious and almost falls apart without a need for chewing, when my back-teeth strike something hard.

"Ow!" I yelp, more in surprised shock than pain, and politely remove the offending hard object from my mouth.

Watson is now gazing at me with concern. "Are you all right old fellow? Whatever is the matter?"

I hold the hard object up to the light. It is a sixpence. "Mrs. Hudson should be more careful with the contents of her pockets when she is baking," I complain. "Look Watson! See what she has dropped into our pudding; a fellow might break a tooth or choke."

"It is a tradition Holmes," he informs me patiently. "It is supposed to be lucky. Did you never have a sixpence in your Christmas pudding at home?"

I shake my head as I examine the coin. "No, never. My parents did not believe in luck."

My companion addresses me with what would appear to be a look of sympathy but says nothing. He does not seem to be surprised that I am not familiar with a vast number of Christmas traditions.

"I suggest that you make a wish Holmes," the fellow advises me at length. "Perhaps you shall be surprised."

I very much doubt it, but I do not argue. The wish is suitably sentimental, for this is most likely the most pleasant Christmas that I have ever experienced. I am only glad that my new friend does not expect me to divulge my private wish to him once I have made it.


	26. Carol Singers

**From Spockologist: 26. Watson and Mary sing Christmas carols**

I awoke shivering in the dark to discover that I had fallen asleep on my settee, still fully clothed. I must have finally run out of energy as I worked upon the coded messages that I had been doing my utmost to unravel.

The sitting room was cold and the house quiet. The fire in the hearth was no longer burning. The absence of warmth in the room was an instant reminder that I was truly alone, for Watson would have covered me with a rug as I slept if he still lodged with me.

I shivered anew and considered relighting the fire, but I found myself too done up to move. I could recall my last meal, but not the day when I had eaten it. I could also not remember when I had last slept a whole night through, for this case was long and complicated.

Despite the chill in the room, I must have returned to slumber. I next awoke to the sound of church bells and cheerful voices. There were the sounds and smells of breakfast cooking, but I had no appetite. I was surprised to discover that all that I really wanted was my friend's company. I curled myself up tighter and closed my eyes.

"Merry Christmas Mr. Holmes," Mrs. Hudson greeted me when she entered the room to relight the fire.

I gave no response. I was not in a celebratory mood and simply feigned sleep.

She tutted to herself. "You are going to catch your death of cold, sleeping there like that! No fire, no blankets! What would Doctor Watson say?"

I almost informed her that Watson would never have left me if he cared at all, but I remained still and silent.

My housekeeper came to my side and covered me with two of my thickest rugs. I felt her hand touch mine and then, with another quiet tut, she took away my case notes and gently slipped my cold hands beneath the covers. Perhaps I should have thanked her; at least somebody still cared!

I was on the edge of sleep yet again when I became aware of voices out in the street. One was male, the other female and they were singing. I pulled the rugs closer to me with a groan; I was in no mood for festivities.

The singing grew steadily louder and I realised with a jolt that the owners of those voices were in the house and climbing the stairs. I forced myself into a sitting position with the rugs about my shoulders as the sitting room door opened.

"Holmes!" the smile left my old friend's face at the sight of me and he hastened to my side, the half-finished carol (and his wife, who was left hovering in the doorway) forgotten in an instant.

I waved his hands away as he attempted to examine me. "I am all right. Merely fagged. This case Watson!"

"When did you last eat and sleep?" he demanded to know.

I almost demanded to know what he cared, but something in the manner in which he was gazing at me kept me from doing so. Instead I shrugged. "Recently, I believe. I did sleep last night."

My Boswell turned his attention to his wife. "Come in and be seated, dearest. I believe that we may have work to do."

I heard her enter slowly.

"First, we shall do what we came here to do and share some festive cheer with Mr. Holmes," I heard her say.

The case during which Watson and I became acquainted with the young and (I shall admit) very beautiful Miss Mary Morstan, who soon became Mrs. Mary Watson, had already allowed me to observe the lady as a remarkable individual. I did not have the measure of her any more than I have ever had the measure of my Boswell, I now came to see. She was not jealous when her husband showed me concern but instead shared his worry with sincere sympathy and kindness. She was everything that my (admittedly limited) experience of women had led me to believe that they were not.

I now was forced to acknowledge that love, when a man is fortunate enough to meet the woman that is best suited him, can be beneficial. I had never before seen my Watson looking so happy or well (despite his obvious concern for me) and I was (or will be, when he finds me in a better mood) only too glad to admit that my fears for him when he married had not been well-founded.

The Watsons spent much of that fine Christmas Day with me in the sitting room. They first treated me to a short repertoire of carols and then (after a hearty breakfast, from which I was not excused) we played games.

I enjoyed myself much more than I had expected to do now that I am alone in this house and was sorry to see them leave. Their visit did prove to me, however, that Watson had meant what he had told me when he married Miss Morstan - he does intend to remain acquainted with me. Perhaps I am not quite as alone as I had believed myself to be after all.


	27. Good Fortune

**From Alosha135: 27th - fortune**

I have never been one to believe in luck. I am a practical man from a practical family; there is no room for superstition within the realms of logic.

I had also never before considered myself to be lonely. I have not had many friends and most of my peers tended to give me a wide birth, once they had discovered that I was not easily bullied or beaten, but that always suited me well enough. My fellows do nothing but provide noise and distraction, after all.

It is now that I have been (supposedly) thrown in with Watson by chance that I find myself using terms like "lucky" and "fortunate", for how else can I express my good fortune? I was a terribly lonely man until Stanford introduced me to the good doctor (not that I would ever admit it). Watson is the first human being that has ever accepted me as I am, with few complaints and still less conflict.

More to the point, were it not for two bullets, the fellow might still be in Afghanistan. Had he not been as alone as myself, we still would not have met.

Most importantly of all, if my Watson were not so patient and kind, we would never have become friends and had he not been so unwell when we were first lodging together, he would have set up a practice straight away and I would have lost the perfect colleague before I had even gained one.

I have come to the conclusion that I must be very fortunate indeed.


	28. Theft is theft

**From Madam'zelleGiry: Day 28: Christmas cookies are going missing.**

I opened the tin that should have contained the remaining two Christmas biscuits from the batch that Mrs. Hudson had given to myself and Holmes, only to find it empty. I was not amused and, as we had had no visitors that might otherwise have been blamed (not all of Holmes' Irregulars remember to ask before helping themselves), I decided to ask my companion why he had not left me one.

The detective was engaged in an experiment and, though I was rather annoyed, I waited until he was finished.

"There is something bothering you," the fellow said suddenly without even turning his head in my direction.

I admitted that there was indeed.

"One moment Watson. I am almost through," he completed his task and then turned in his chair. "What is it?"

I suddenly felt rather foolish, but my friend is aware of my fondness for sweets and desserts and my only objection was that he had not thought to leave me any of the biscuits.

"Why did you eat both of the remaining biscuits?" I asked him. "You could have at least offered me one."

"I have only had two myself," he responded with a slight frown. "I assumed that you were unable to resist them, the speed at which they have vanished."

Of course, a mystery is a mystery and the fellow could not let it rest. Holmes asked Mrs. Hudson to make up another batch and then turned to me with excitement.

"Ha ha! We shall soon discover the reason for the biscuits' inexplicable disappearance Watson."

When the biscuits were delivered by the page, it seemed that there were already some missing. Mrs. Hudson always provides us with an equal number of biscuits - usually ten or twelve, depending upon their size - so that we each have an equal number. On this occasion, there were seven.

Holmes gave me a small smile and then invited the page to enter and sit down.

"Those biscuits are deliciously tempting, are they not?"

"They do smell good sir."

Holmes nodded and patted his shoulder. "They are good. The trouble is that one is never enough."

"No sir," he agreed with a smile. "Once you've had one you have to have another. They're that good."

"They are very crumbly as well," my friend added. "It is impossible to even bite one without coating one's clothes with crumbs."

The boy looked startled and immediately began to check his uniform.

"Now you listen carefully," Holmes said in a dangerously quiet tone. "If you steal from this house again you shall spend this Christmas seeking employment elsewhere. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir! Sorry Mr. Holmes. I didn't mean to."

Holmes nodded solemnly. "I am sure that you meant no harm. Just be sure to remain honest in the future."

Of course the boy did so. Sherlock Holmes is quite unnerving when he shouts, but he is all the more so when his voice is soft. The lad has been nervous of him ever since.


	29. Surprise!

**From Lucillia: Dec 29. Surprise party.**

I am not quite sure why Lestrade and I thought that it would be a good idea. I suppose we were simply very glad to have Holmes back from the dead. In hindsight, it was not the best idea that either of us had ever had; it should have been obvious that it would take more than a three year long absence to cause our friend to enjoy parties.

"He's coming!" hissed Gregory. "Quick! Places everyone!"

Holmes entered the room and flicked on the lights. "Oh God no!" he groaned. "Why are you all lying in wait for me? Is this your idea Watson? Mind your head! Yes, of course I can see you. I think that you had better come out from under there before you hurt yourself."

Despite my old war wounds, I had squeezed into the shadows beneath Lestrade's desk. I extracted myself gingerly.

"That's better," my friend remarked once we had all come out of hiding. "Now, perhaps you could kindly explain to me why I have been called here under false pretences, Lestrade?"

The little dark-eyed man frowned at him. "The idea was that we all throw you a party as a means of... well... we are all very glad to have you back with us."

"You made that quite clear on the night when you arrested Colonel Moran. Besides, I have been 'back with you' for almost a year!"

The inspector nodded. "And you celebrate your birthday soon. I thought..."

"You thought that you would celebrate my birthday and the anniversary of my return now, so that I would not become suspicious."

"Well... Yes."

"In your office."

He shook his head and smiled at my companion. "Of course we can't celebrate here! There isn't the room! Come with me."

We followed behind as the inspector eagerly dragged the protesting detective down to the officers' dining hall, which was still decorated for Christmas.

Hopkins handed Holmes a glass of champagne and offered him a smile. "We are glad to have you back," he said quietly. "All of London mourned for you."

My friend gazed into his glass solemnly for a moment and then returned the inspector's smile with quiet thanks. He then cast a glance in my direction, a strange look which I could not decipher upon his face.

The party was rather a sombre affair as a result of Holmes' quiet, almost pensive mood. Indeed, it reminded me rather of the wake that we had all attended after the fellow's funeral rather than a celebration of his return.

All the same, I believe that the thought behind the gesture was not lost on my companion, for he thanked everyone warmly before we left for Baker Street.

"That was the most ridiculous idea that you and Lestrade have ever had," Holmes informed me as I seated myself at his side in the cab.

"Sorry Holmes, but you see..."

He smiled at me and rested his hand at my wrist. "I do see, yes. There is no need for you to explain or apologise, for I also missed you." With that, he gave a quiet yawn and closed his eyes. "Just give me some warning the next time that you wish to surprise me would you, old fellow?"


	30. Supernatural

**From mrspencil and Ennui Enigma: 30/ supernatural**

I do not believe in ghosts. I am not sure what I am seeing, but this apparition cannot be a spirit. What could a spirit possibly want with me? I am a man of science, not a psychic!

"Mr. Holmes, you are my only chance. I cannot rest until my murderer is brought to justice."

Ah. That is what a spirit could want with me. Calm yourself Holmes; this is just another client. "Very well. What is your name?"

"Mrs. Frederick Dempsey. I am sorry to have alarmed you so Mr. Holmes. Had I but only plucked up the courage to come to you when I was still among the living... But I could not be sure! I might not have been being poisoned at all; it might have all been silliness on my part."

"My dear Mrs. Dempsey," I interrupt, feeling relieved that I have finally managed to recover at least some of my masterful nature. "I beg of you, give me the facts; I am quite all right."

"Thank you," she approaches me carefully all the same, as if she expects me to run away screaming.

I soon have enough information to know that Mrs. Dempsey's body must be exhumed without delay. I now only have to find an explanation that does not include clients of a supernatural variety.


End file.
